


the duplicity of wishbones

by rosesburnedalive



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafes, Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Barista Steve Rogers, Fluff, I could kill that man by showing him jeggings, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Multilingual, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Obliviousness, Philosophers are mentioned, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Translator Bucky Barnes, Writer Bucky Barnes, drowning sorrows in coffee literature and fancy desserts, everyone is dumb and gay including the author, not Freud
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2019-10-27 17:02:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesburnedalive/pseuds/rosesburnedalive
Summary: This is how Bucky Barnes falls in love.This is how Bucky Barnes gets his heart shattered amongst the stars and pulled apart like a flower in love torn hands, petals smashed under the soles of shoes on concrete.He loves me. He loves me not.He loves me.He loves me not.—A story told without thought (or maybe too much); featuring an old poem, words lost in translation, and dick jokes.





	the duplicity of wishbones

**Author's Note:**

> this is my very first chaptered fic and my first time posting a work for this pairing which is peculiar since it’s really the only ship I read.
> 
> this is also completely unbetaed, so all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> let me know your thoughts.
> 
> EDIT June 6, 2019: I have reread this chapter in hope of rekindling any sort of muse or love I have for this story. unfortunately I have had no such luck. on a different note, I have gone through and edited some parts of this chapter that have been giving me grief. I hope that I can return to this work at a later date but I can’t make any such promises.

_“What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty! In form and moving how express and admirable! In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! The beauty of the world. The paragon of animals. And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?”_

_— William Shakespeare, Hamlet_  
_  
_ “ _Does such a thing as ‘the fatal flaw,’ that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside of literature? I used to think it didn’t. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all_   _costs_.”

_― Donna Tartt, The Secret History_

_— — —_

Bucky doesn’t know when it started.  
  
Perhaps it started the first time they touched each other in a way that couldn’t be considered merely friendly. When he thought to himself, _maybe this could happen. Maybe I am allowed to want this._  
  
Perhaps it started when he realized that Steve’s hair reminded him of old parchment paper and antique books and he wondered if it smelled that way too.  
  
Perhaps it started when the terrible hunger for knowing Steve, for knowing everything — to know the secrets that his secrets haven’t found — was so overwhelming that he could almost tear the flesh off of his bones.  
  
Or perhaps it started when it ended. οὐροβόρος. With goodbyes and see you laters. When emptiness took the shape of a person.  
  
He doesn’t know when he started to fall in love with Steven Grant Rogers, only that he did, and that it didn’t end the way he thought it would.

  
— — —

  
“The usual _, Dioniso?”_    
  
“ _Certo, Sofia._ You always know the way to my heart.” Bucky flashes her a smile.  
  
“You are more trouble than you’re worth, _il mio caro Dioniso_ , it’s funny that you think you’re cute.” Sofia says this with a smile that lifts up the last syllables of her quip.  
  
She rolls her eyes when Bucky gives her a wink.  
  
“How did Arsenio do on his French test?” He hands her the money for the cappuccino and pastry, slipping a ten dollar bill  into the tip jar.  
  
“Ah, you know that _piccolo piantagrane_ , he’s always trying his best. He managed to pass this one, thanks to you,” she keeps the tip but slides the money back towards him. “I think he’s enjoying his sessions.”  
  
“I’m glad,” he stuffs the money into the tip jar, “we’re still on for Thursday correct?” She rolls her eyes again.  
  
“ _Sì_ , you better not be late, _Dioniso_.”  
  
“You wound me, Sofia, I’m never late,” he says, feigning fainting.  
  
“ _Non me ne frega un cazzo_. Shoo now, I’ll have the _il novizio_ bring you your coffee, you addict.”  
  
“You’d be out of business without me, old woman; better keep me happy and healthy.”  
  
“You are a menace, _Dioniso_. You better start being nice to me, I found my Italian copy of Dante and I’m not giving it to sassy asshats. Get out of my sight before I call your sister.”  
  
Bucky laughs and heads towards his table. The man managing the coffee machine isn’t Lorenzo, the regular barista, who’s a stout man that wears too many striped fabrics and smells vaguely of almonds and tobacco, but a young blond man; hair swept up in a lazy quiff. Bucky has never seen him before.  
  
He looks back to Sofia and raises an eyebrow. She stares him down.  
  
“ _Il novizio_?” He juts his chin towards the blond man. “Where is Lorenzo _?_ Is his mother sick again?”  
  
“ _Sì e sì, sfortunatamente,_ he’s asked for some time off to move in with her _._ ” Her voice drips with blatant worry as she wipes down nearby tables.  
  
He knew Lorenzo’s mother was getting continuously more sick but he never expected Lorenzo to quit working at the cafe.  
  
Nodding his head he continues to the table nestled in the corner between the bookshelves and the fireplace. Open enough to view the entrance and counter; secluded enough that no one bothers him while he sips coffee next to Hemingway and Fitzgerald.  
  
He pulls his leather gloves off with his teeth and stuffs them in his overcoat. After taking his current translations from his bag and placing them across the wooden table he lets himself breathe. The air, full of that classic cafe smell — coffee and burnt sugar, warm milk and baked goods — calms him more than he would ever wish to admit.  
  
If he could stake his life on this — on the soft music of Vendredi Sur Mer and Sofia calling out orders and the barista’s baritone replies — he would without second thought.  
  
“Cappuccino and sfogliatella?”  
  
Bucky startles at the barista’s ( _il novizio_ his thoughts purr) voice knocking his transcriptions to the ground. Scrambling, he tries his best to gather them up. The barista crouches to help him, apologizing.  
  
“I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s quite alright, my apologies. I wasn’t paying any attention.”  
  
“Oh, no, I’m the one that should be apologizing. I’ve been told I have a problem with sneaking up on people.” A playful smile graces the man’s lips. He stands up, tapping Bucky’s translations against the table until they sit in a neat pile. Bucky sees that he has placed the promise of caffeine and sweetness onto the table. He grabs the mug and holds it to his chest to ground him; the man makes him nervous.

The barista’s hands run along his apron as if he’s trying to iron it out with his palms. He’s tall; seemingly taller now that he isn’t behind the counter and his eyes are bluer too, like an arsenic fire.  
  
They’re making hard for Bucky to think.

“I’m sorry, again. I hope I didn’t ruin any of your work.”

“You’re not from around here, are you?” Bucky blurts. He tries to fix the barista with a look without seeming like he’s looking too long. It isn’t too much of a stretch to think of the barista’s face, with the solidness of his blue gaze and the inviting line of his jaw, projected on the silver screen or confined to the possibilities of late-night black and white television. The kind of man that stars in films shot in old Hollywood where he gets to kiss Margaret Sullivan in the rain.  
  
Logically, Bucky knows he’s allowed to look but he has an unofficial date with Brock tonight and an unanswered message from him waiting on his phone.  
  
_Talk to the man! Be nice! Make a friend! You need more of those!_ The voice yelling at him in his head sounds suspiciously like Becca. And god, if he doesn’t want to listen to her and ignore the texts from Brock festering on his phone.  
  
“Indeed I’m not,” the man chuckles, “what gave me away?” His accent is light but unmistakably Brooklyn, lips lifted in a smirk as he attempts to straighten the already perfect pile of Bucky’s translations on the table. The barista doesn’t have a name tag.  
  
“Mmm,” Bucky acknowledges the statement with a nod of his head, looking the man up and down trying to decide how to word his thoughts. “You move too quickly,” he sips at his cappuccino. It’s too hot.  
  
The barista seems stumped by this; he looks at Bucky as if he’s waiting for him to justify his observation. Bucky doesn’t. He has no clue what to say to this man. The thought had stumbled out of him without warrant and now his mind refuses to supply anything other than incoherent convictions. He tears his eyes away from the barista’s and fiddles with the buttons on his overcoat.  
  
“I mean, clearly you’re city boy and not from a small town like this and I didn’t recognize you and I have I feeling I would recognize you. I know almost everyone here. I mean, not personally but I know _of_ them and—“ He cuts himself off. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

  
The barista laughs and Bucky can feel his cheeks burn. “You sound as if you know from experience, where’re you from?”  
  
Bucky tries to give the man a smile at the honest attempt to keep the conversation afloat. At least one of them knows the basics of social interaction.  
  
“Born in Indiana and moved to Brooklyn when I was two. Raised all around for a few years after that.”  
  
“Ah, a fellow Brooklynite and how’d you end up in a small town like this?”  
  
“I studied abroad for a while, got homesick and moved back to the states. My mother and sister having been living out here for a few years now and they offered to help me find a place. What about you? How did you find yourself working in this little Italian cafe?”  
  
“I’ve been jumping from place to place for a while now, seems like a nice enough place to make a pit stop.” A quieter smile accompanies this, it’s curved and lopsided, as sweet as honey. The bastard even has a goddamn dimple.  
  
“Not planning on staying here long then?” Bucky lets his own smile seep into this.  
  
The barista turns back to him, “Probably not. Most likely I’ll stay a few weeks, maybe till the end of summer. Though, I have heard that autumn is beautiful here. I’ll have to see; I can’t say.”  
  
Bucky feels his own smile fall and be replaced by furrowed brows.  
  
“Doesn’t that make you terribly lonely?” The question slips out before Bucky can stumble to catch it. The barista, again, seems startled by his words and stares at him, lips parted slightly. Bucky winces. “I’m sorry, that was totally out of line. That’s none of my business,”  
  
“No, you’re perfectly alright. I hope enjoy your coffee, sir,” and at that the barista promptly returns to the counter without staying to hear Bucky’s jumble of apologies, ‘thank you’s, and ‘you too’s.  
  
Bucky turns back to his documents and taps his pen against his bottom lip.

  
— — —

  
Two hours have long come and gone when Bucky emerges from his translations, running his hands across his face. All the words have started to blur, German and English merging into gibberish, weighing so heavily in his head that it had started to ache.  
  
Empty mugs lay drained from when _il novizio_ had brought him more cappuccinos, fueling his jittery and anxious state.  
  
Sofia is talking to another customer, Francis, who runs the bookshop a few blocks down where Bucky got his beloved copy of _The Stranger_ in its original French text. He goes there to find books in anything but English and to seek obscure knowledge of Latin words and drown in vellichor. His own house of prayer. Perhaps Francis has some insight to Bucky’s profuse and incessant monachopsis.  
  
_Monachopsis_ ; clearly far too large of a word to be using on a Monday. Seems much more like a Wednesday word in retrospect.  
  
The barista is still working; quick and concise, just as Bucky had told him. His hair, reminiscent of Dorian Gray and the precise color of aged parchment paper, sticks to his forehead slightly. He moves with ease, as if he belongs amongst the uneven floorboards of a cafe and the soft clinking of teaspoons against porcelain more than anyone else ever could. Like he grew up in a coffee mug, doling out 100 watt smiles as if it‘s nothing; like making lattes is a performance of the arts. A performance of _Le Jeune Homme et la Mort_ coated in coffee grounds and adorned with buttercream.  
  
Of course he’s good, Sofia wouldn’t let just anybody touch her beloved _Belle Époque._    
  
Bucky thinks about this — about the barista taking Jean Banilee’s place amongst the melody of Bach’s Passacaglia and Fugue. It’s foolish and fanciful, of course, but Becca isn’t here to chastise him, is she? He can indulge in as many daydreams or delusions as he could ever want. Plus, she would argue that the barista is far better suited for the likes of something similar _Don Quixote_ , or _La Bayadère_. Not invalid choices, per se, but neither would showcase the calculated way the barista moves.  
  
Mostly, Bucky is entranced with his hands. They move impetuously; catching a mug before it falls, pushing and pulling levers for lattes and cappuccinos, running through his hair like he’s got someone to impress.  
  
And God, as if that doesn’t make Bucky feel… inadequate.  
  
He picks at a scab on his arm. Maybe if he picks long enough, digs deep enough he’ll find what makes him him and it will slip out of his body and he’ll melt through the walls; an allip lost in the alleyways. Star-pale and celestial, neither flesh nor blood. To be able to gently drift in and out of existence when he wants to. To drip through the floorboards, to be there and then not. It sounds like a dream. He chuckles under his breath as the words of Robert Desnos — _Corps et Bien; J’ai tant rêvé de toi_ — come to mind; “ _Perhaps the only thing left for him is to become a phantom among phantoms_ ”. A tragedy condemned to repeat itself time and again. Something dead which seems to be alive. Emotion suspended in the veil between life and death.  
  
Or maybe he’ll text Brock back and everything will go back to normal.  
  
He’s lucky to have Brock. ( _Lucky? Are you sure that’s the word you should use?_ Becca’s voice rings in his head again. _Shut up, Becca, I’m_ fine.)

Finding Brock was an anomaly in and of itself. Bucky had decided one day to head to a local bar, a whim that he wouldn’t normally indulge, but he was longing for any human interaction beyond ordering coffee or apologizing for knocking into someone on the street. He hadn’t known whom he had wished to catch, only that he wished to catch someone, anyone, to be anchored, to be connected, to not be alone. ( _I know I’m not alone, Becks, but sometimes it feels as if I am._ )  
  
So that’s what he had done. He stitched himself together and set off to find someone and came home with Brock. A lover just for him. Or as much as Brock _could_ be anyone’s.  
  
Some days he wants to feel as if Brock will hollow him out and make him smile or cry or feel some multisyllabic Slavic word that means nostalgia and delight and discovery and heartbreak and first-most-painful-and-uncertain love. But this isn’t how his nights go with Brock.  
  
Normally, one of them will send a series of suggestive emojis (Brock's favorite is the eggplant; Bucky, the peach) or pictures that would make his mother smack him upside his head and they’ll meet up somewhere at some time and fuck. Brock refuses to call it anything but fucking. Sometimes one of them will knock on the other’s front door — usually it’s Bucky doing the knocking, unless Brock is apologizing for something — and it’ll go from there.  
  
This is how Brock loves, this is how Bucky deserved to be loved.    
  
Maybe he _should_ text Brock back.  
  
**_Brock_ :** _Don’t bother coming over tonight._  
  
A plate with a fresh croissant appears before him and Sofia sits across from him. He rushes to text Brock back before Sofia can read their messages.  
  
**_Bucky_** _: what? is everything okay?_  
  
His phone dings again but Sofia is already talking to him and trying to get a peek at his phone.

  
“How are you doing, _Dioniso_? You look even more despondent than usual especially in that get up of yours.”  
  
Bucky knows what he looks like with his long, black overcoat wrapping around him and hair tied up in a messy bun. He wears dark gray slacks more often than not and clips suspenders over white dress shirts when he’s in the mood, and carries around his leather messenger bag everywhere he goes. He looks as if he stepped right out of the pages a Donna Tartt novel, still dripping with ink. He’s carrying around a copy of the Iliad in its original Ancient Greek text, for Christ’s sake.  
  
Becca calls him a pretentious asshole, Sofia just calls him sad; both, equally valid.  
  
“I think Brock is mad at me again, I don’t even remember what I did.”  
  
“If that _testa di cazzo_ is—“  
  
“No, everything’s fine I promise. I probably just forgot to take out the trash again or said something about his car or something.”

 ** _Brock:_** _You pissed me off last time plus_ _I got plans and don’t need you here_

“Tell me if you need me to take out that piece of trash. I don’t know why you stay with that imbecile, _tesoro_ .”  
  
Bucky turns back to his work, trying his best to ignore her and Brock’s text message. Sofia’s words are eating at him and he only wants to think about how to translate _verschlimmbessern_ without applying it to whatever Sofia is trying to do.  
  
“ _Il cuore vuole quello che vuole_.”  
  
“Yeah, well, your heart is a damn fool.”  
  
“You can say that again, _vecchia donna_ ,” he says, dropping his head to rest on the table.  
  
“Call me an old woman again and I’ll get _il novizio_ to throw you out.”  
  
“Where did you even find that guy? He’s built like a brick shithouse and I thought you never take in _stupidi americani_ .”  
  
“Yes, well this _americano_ is not _stupido_.”  
  
“You wound me, old woman.”  
  
“And you are correct; that man is a real life Discobolus, yes?”  
  
“You better hold onto those love letters; he says _se-fog-lee-ah-tella_ like a true _americano_ and I thought _you_ were supposed to be a happily married woman.”  
  
He gestures at her wedding ring with his pen, proving that he has a point

“Some Americans don’t spend their summers lazing around in Italy, Bucky, and trust me, I’m not the only one looking.”  
  
“I hope you’re not trying to insinuate something, _strega_.”  
  
“I’m not insinuating anything you don’t already know.”  
  
He hums again, trying to ignore her her words and whatever they’re bringing to mind.  
  
“His name is Steve, he is very sweet. You should talk to him.”  
  
“I’m with Brock.”

“You don’t have to marry Steve, just talk to him. Maybe you’ll be friends.”

“I have enough friends; I have you, Brock, Francis, Becca, Lorenzo, and Oscar. If you ask me that’s already too many.”

“Becca doesn’t count, she’s your sister. Oscar is your cat, so that’s a no on him —“

“Hey!”

“And _Brock_ is a no good. Plus, Lorenzo, Francis, and I are all more than double your age. Make a friend, _Dioniso_ _._ ”

The barista, _il novizio_ — Steve — is washing down tables. He moves with the same grace that he has while making coffee and Sofia’s comparison to Discobolus is more than justified. Steve seems to feel his gaze and looks up to meet it. Bucky looks away.

“I told you I’m not the only one that looks.”

He decides enough is enough and begins to pack up his translations. He can work from home without Sofia trying to set him up with the barista and the barista in question distracting him.  
  
“Sorry, Sof, I need to head home, I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, run away _Dioniso_ ,” she waves her hand dismissively and stands to kiss his cheeks, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Think about what I said, will you?”  
  
He nods his head and pulls on his gloves.  
  
“ _Dioniso_ , get over here.”  
  
Sofia pulls his necklace out from under his shirt and centers it until the pendant in the shape of the Star of David lands on the notch of his sternum, bare and for all to see. Her hands are cold. She places a one on his cheek. He leans into the touch.  
  
“Don’t hide yourself, _amore mio_ , your motherwould have your hide if she saw  you do so.” she whispers. “Far sweeter-sounding than the lyre, far more golden than gold.”

“Tell me, why have you been memorizing Sappho, _vecchia donna?”_

She turns her back to him, feigning dramatics and sorrow. She places the back of her hand on her forehead and clutches her chest.

“I have a secret lesbian lover that I recite poetry to before passionately ravaging her upon rose petals,” her Italian accent intensifies with every word. “Our love is doomed to end in tragedy but I love her so.”

He feels a smile tugging at his lips.

“And what does your husband think of your mistress?”

“He is none the wiser, I see my heart only while he is away.”

Her face is almost convincingly forlorn when she looks at him. A chuckle escapes her and she bursts with laughter, Bucky joining her soon after.

“Sounds fascinating, I trust you are treating her well.”

When they finish laughing Sofia’s face sobers up and she turns to look him in the eyes. A small smile rests on her lips and she pats his cheek.

“Take care of your heart, _Dioniso_ _._ ”

He takes her hand between his and kisses the back of it.

“Bye Sof.”  
  
Grabbing his bag he heads out the door, the Star of David burning a hole against the notch of sternum in the winter chill.

**Author's Note:**

> verschlimmbessern is one of my favourite untranslatable words. the verb verschlimm means “to make things worse” and verbessern means “to improve” so this word equates to making something worse during the act of trying to improve it. also, I highly recommend checking out Le Jeune Homme et la Mort, it is absolutely breathtaking, it brought me to tears the first time I saw it. I’m a little more inclined to recommend [Jean Banilee’s](https://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=aDCNmD-dvq4) performance because it was the first I saw but [Nikolai Tsiskaridze‘s](https://youtu.be/kbl0YrR0k6w) and [Mikhail Baryshnikov’s](https://m.youtube.com/watch?feature=youtu.be&v=F9vttbubuHM) are equally heart-stopping.
> 
>  
> 
> [playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/user/eva.reid12/playlist/1G01fSqQmWP8I8miw27UtN?si=AvLtqrihQu6wfXVRrpZ3jg)
> 
>  
> 
> stalk me:  
> [main tumblr](https://paintingscrolls.tumblr.com)  
> [personal twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/bananastarberry)  
> 


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